“Where to now?” she asked, her voice cracking with emotion. The beauty of Venice was undeniable, the delicately stroking sun rays, the intoxicating saltiness invading their nostrils, the majestic, ancient building standing imposingly in front of them.

“Into the great unknown,” he whispered, squeezing with ferocity the thinness of her fingers, “and maybe even beyond that.”

Her full, burgundy lips curved upwards, small dimples forming right below her prominent cheekbones. She could drown in the overwhelming, grandiloquent scenery that was unfolding before her eyes. “And when that ends, what do we do?” she asked silently, her ears resonating with the impact of every syllable.

“Trust me,” his masculine voice reassured, “this adventure never ends.” His confidence was contagious, suddenly her soul exploding with desire, with pregnant will.

They were in Venice, after all, sheltered away from the commotion of their city, from the disgraceful words of the intruders. They were wrapped in a cocoon of their own, imperturbable and free. Beneath the wine-hued sky, their love could blossom, their footsteps mingling with thousands other ones.

This time, unlikely the rushing, uncoordinated crowds, they had a target. A reachable one.

Poetry? A nice word that unleashes so much in just a few syllables and sounds. To many, it’s a poignant form of art, not so understandable, not so absorbing. I used to believe this. I treated poetry as something that I had to study, that was part of an obligatory curriculum. What changed everything was what I call “the combustion”.

It’s that purifying moment when you just need to attach to something, just to experience the bond, the sense of contentment. I started shyly, evoking only bits and pieces from randomly generated authors like Nikita Gill, Atticus, Tyler Kent White and even the renowned Shakespeare.

I surpassed that moment by simply reading, reformulating verses in my mind so they were alleviating. Then, all this reading became monochrome, dreary. It was good, but not excellent and my mind immediately started to spot dissimilarities. I could identify with a certain poem, but only to a precise extent. Maybe I needed a fresh gulp of air. Maybe I should do something on my own, regardless of the fact that the audience is nonexistent. The only public was composed of my soul and the sins, ideologies, dreams buried deep inside.

It doesn’t have a rhyme? Instead, it has meaning. It isn’t properly measured? It’s a modern type of poetry. It doesn’t have the peremptory motifs? It has my own literary qualities. Break those barriers. Stipulated this code that infringe us. Poetry is feeling, is the singular product of our imagination, a piece of flesh and bone transferred on paper.

Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. To those out there looking for an escapade, absolute relief, take a sheet of paper, a sharpened pen and start. No one’s watching, no one’s dictating from afar. It’s just you and your inner self, screaming -silently- along the cramped lines.

For me, poetry comes as a small desire, to portray life as genuinely as possible. Nothing too exquisite and labyrinthine, just a bit of how everything happened.

As I said yesterday, the major part of my life is governed by writing, be it poetry, prose or just random dialogues written in a span of ten minutes. So far, writing has been an occasional pleasure, only scribbling narratives or descriptions in the middle of the night or whenever a class turned out to be exceptionally boring and loathsome. Despite all this jumbled routine, a desire to pursue this path has settled in my soul.

In the past couple of months, writing short stories of maximum ten pages was more than sufficient. A reduced plot, episodic characters going through a gripping and suspense-filled experience found an end suddenly. At that time, it seemed convenient. Juggling writing and other occupying activities is no easy task. Virtually ignoring sleep deprivation, contradictory feelings or even mean, mendacious comments, I kept on going. But what happens when an idea begins to haunt you? To be more like an everlasting obsession?

It wasn’t abnormal or abhorrent. I recognized it as a novel idea, one that had enough power to propel me further, to keep me fueled until the very last page. I’ve never envisioned myself as a novelist, not even close to this domain. A spark was immediately ignited, as much as I wanted to deny it, to misplace it as a dream that will never come true. That’s when I became an assembly of both apprehension and euphoria.

Finally, I had it, the grandiloquent idea I have long searched for. However, it’s exclusively my duty to keep the action and the instances revitalized. I never wanted this amazing, fragmented idea to perish, to become a collection of excerpts from “a book I’ll never write”, to be forgotten in one stack of coffee-stained, decayed papers.

Well, it’s way more psychologically demanding than I would have ever thought. The practical writing itself is facile, but putting up with the harsh reality truly feels like a preternatural exodus. Being constantly reminded that literary people are not worth it, that writing is outdated, obsolete and even weird, that you are a total mess, a falling persona who can’t write on a daily basis, that your style is far too complex and ingenious accumulated with time.

So, why stick to the reality? A reality that managed to slam down my writing numerous times. I’ve browsed, documented myself, and countered pros and cons. One night, with the blood boiling fervently and a doze of motivation rushing in my veins, I made a decision. I decided to step out of the dark shadows. I want to be a literary person. And so what?

It is my long-buried passion, my vocation, the pure expression of my inner self, the unique product of my imagination. I’ve grown tired of hiding it. So, I’m stepping into the light, with a fragment that it’s an intrinsic part of the prologue that I’ve always imagined. The prologue of that idea.

Fun? Turmoil? Constant, unnecessary stress? It was hard enough for June Scott to find a suitable adjective when so many dissipated voices could be heard around her. Nameless faces, most unknown, all virtually strange, were surrounding her, muffling some guttural sounds she couldn’t quite comprehend. “It will be hard to call those people my colleagues for the next four years,” She thought to herself, exhaling a strangled sigh. Dressed in a simple, maroon dress, with her albino legs exposed to the stinging wind, June seemed utterly lifeless and disoriented. Her frizzy, black hair was tightly knot at the back of her head, some rebellious strands cradling the sides of her face.

The weather was beyond horrible. An impenetrable layer of grayish clouds obscured the light of the sun, the usual sight of the local hills –clad in rose and amethyst- was nowhere to be seen.

“Loosen up a little. It’s normal to feel this lost in the first day,” a small voice said from behind June.

“You’re the only calm person around here. Everyone is pacing around,” She said in reply. Dee had always been the voice of reason and motivation. With her plain, almost too casual outfit, black jeans and a floral, vintage blouse, her glass-covered hazel eyes remained way too serious.

“We’re all one name on a list,” Dee said, moving her oval glasses just an inch higher with the pad of her thumb. It was just her typical, neurotic sign consuming her insides.

“You are still to make a good impression, don’t worry,” She commented, folding her slim arms.

“That’s not the point. It’s just – way too weird. Are we supposed to feel happy? Sad? Threatened?” June asked continuously. Nerves were wrangling her brain, just as usual. Only the frosty coldness of September could keep her sane. Blood was pumping voraciously through her constricted veins.

I’m finally at peace to know that somewhere, even in the virtual world, I’ll be wanted. And other aspiring authors should also feel wanted. There’s place for everyone. *warm hugs*

Interesting question. More like a complex one for me. So, basically I’m here to talk, to exchange ideas. As much as I’m an introvert in real life, no one can stop me around here. Well, it’s better to tell some basics about this page, right?

What? To be honest, I change my mind constantly. So why stick to a pattern? I want this blog to have everything that I enjoy doing. There will be tons of stories -different genres-, music, discussions and maybe things that are a tad more serious like debates or commentaries.

When? I’m wrapping up my semester in a few weeks. So, expect daily posts or at the very least every couple of days. I’m traveling a lot especially during this season, but I made a promise to update as much as I can.

Who? Anyone, duh. Funny fact about me: I have quite a few pen pals, so why not enlarge the list? If you take pleasure in literature, press, music and even random topics, feel free to join. My arms are open to everyone, literally everyone.

In short terms, this is me. More to come in the upcoming articles. If you have any suggestions about what should come further, don’t hesitate to comment in the section below. *blowing kisses *

~J

Need music? ^^

In order to enjoy those posts to the maximum, take a pair of headphones, turn the volume up and sway on those songs.
Take the world tonight - Shane Harper
Blow you mind - Dua Lipa
So good - Louisa Johnson
Shameless - The Weekend
Ain't my fault - Zara Larsson